


Finding Red

by InkFire_Scribe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5058553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFire_Scribe/pseuds/InkFire_Scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vicious orc raid decimates a nomadic elf clan, and Legolas befriends one of the survivors as she begins to recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a bit directionless and wasn't really written for any real purpose. It spawned from the thought that it was possible someone might think a particular hair color was unnatural because they lived in an area where that hair color wasn't common or didn't exist. 
> 
> Note this isn't the only version of my personal headcanon for Tauriel's backstory, merely one of many. :) Enjoy.

The destruction was terrible.

They had received word too late, the messenger badly injured and ill-prepared for such a journey. Warriors had made all speed to the Silvan encampment, but they hadn’t arrived in time. Orcs were plundering bodies and tormenting the survivors, but the main body of the pack seemed to have moved on. An Elf’s rage can be matched only by the bloodlust of his sword. Many Orcs died that day, and most in cowardly retreat. Oh, they’d been brave enough when descending on an unarmed, unprepared camp. It had been a small clan. Now only a handful remained.

Thranduil stood in the ruined camp, gazing sadly about at the scattered remains of what had once been a good life. These Elves, a nomadic clan that passed through his realm from time to time, had not been warriors. They were craftsmen and artisans, makers of beautiful things. They brought war to no-one, and on a day of rejoicing, had been repaid with violence and death. Such was the nature of darkness--that in time, all evil things came to light.

“Ada.” Legolas’ young face was tight with anger and grief. He had been with the first of the warriors, and his armor was spattered with the black stains of Orc-blood. The king didn’t know whether to feel pride or regret at the sight. His son was young, yet. This was no tragedy he’d have wanted Legolas to carry all the days of his long life.

“Yes?” Thranduil’s gaze followed a pair of warriors, carrying a pitiful, linen-wrapped bundle. The broken body within the swaths of cloth would be respectfully buried, along with its kin, and a mound erected in their honor. The idea of such a thing within his borders, the necessity and the reminder of his failing, was enough to break the Elvenking’s heart.

“Six survived the attack.”

“Six?” Thranduil tasted bitter, angry bile. Of the three-score Elves that had entered his realm, only _six_ remained.

“Seven!” Called a warrior, looking over his shoulder at his prince and king. He was holding up the trampled, muddied canvas of a fallen tent.

Legolas went immediately to help retrieve the seventh survivor. A young female, bloodied and unconscious, was dragged from under the canvas and laid out carefully. Her injuries seemed primarily superficial, but the fact that she didn’t wake was worrisome. Even fresh water failed to revive her. Thranduil looked on, noting with a pang of grief that this female was indeed very young. It was questionable whether she had even come of age yet.

_An Elf-child has fallen to my complacency. It would have been no worse had I been the one to strike her down._

“Take her and the others to the palace and treat them there. Until they choose to depart, they are my guests.” The offer of guest-right in the halls of a king was a rich gift indeed, though a poor consolation for the lives that had been lost. He could only pray it was enough to soothe the grief of the injured and healing.


	2. Burial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The burial is completed, and what remains of the clan makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short-short chapters. This was just the way it came out. Hope you like them all the same.

Two more died under the care of the Elvenking’s healers. One on the road to the palace. The other in the throes of grief, deprived of his lifemate and only child. The young female slept and did not wake, though her wounds healed normally. Days passed, and the mound was slowly erected over the graves of those that ought never have felt the touch of death. The four remaining survivors said little, but expressed nothing but gratitude toward Thranduil and his kin. What had been saved had been by their hands, and the debt was not one they would soon forget.

Time came when the burial was at last complete. The survivors gathered before the fresh mound and lifted their voices in a song of mourning. In this green and peaceful place, the starlight was faint, but piercing. None would disturb those who rested within. Soon, their bodies would be naught but dust, but the place would be sacred to those who remembered. Warriors who had avenged their dead stood with the pitiful remains of a once strong clan and sang with them. Silence fell only when the moon rose over the trees and bathed the clearing in its bright, silver light.

Thranduil turned to the eldest of the four, their sad-eyed leader, and bowed his head. “You are welcome in the Woodland Realm for as long as you wish.” The Silvan elf shook his head slightly, auburn hair dark against the green of his clothes. 

“Your hospitality has been great, King, but this is not our home. We will continue, as we always have.” 

Declining the king’s offer hadn’t been altogether unforeseen, but his words caused a ripple of unease through the listeners. No one had expected them to move on so soon.

“And what of the elleth? She still sleeps.” Thranduil felt the gaze of his son on him. Legolas seemed to have become attached to the unconscious female, and had spent many hours in the past days watching over her. No doubt her departure, more than the others, would grieve him. 

“Let her make her own choice. When she wakes, she may follow us or stay with you. It matters not.” One could tell from the elf’s face that even he thought the message a little harsh. Its truth, however, was also there for anyone to hear. They would not force the young one to abandon this place of safety against her will. 

At length, Thranduil nodded his assent. “As you wish. May the stars light your path, my friend.” 

It wasn’t long before their guests departed, carrying only as much as they themselves could bear, as they had, to an elf, refused Thranduil’s offer of pack animals. They would accumulate their own supplies, as they always had. No, his gesture was more than kind--this was just the way they’d always done things.


	3. Unseeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young elleth awakes, and Thranduil does his best to help her.

“Your Majesty. The elleth has wakened.”

“Has she asked anything of you?”

“No, but she has taken drink, my lord.”

When Thranduil entered the room where the injured female had slept, Legolas was perched on the edge of the bed. The elleth was sitting up and held a cup between her hands, but she neither reacted to the prince’s hand on her knee nor acknowledged the king’s entrance. Gazing silently into the depths of her cup, the elleth sat very still, her face sad and yet strangely blank.

“Ada, she says nothing. Asks nothing. I don’t know how to reach her.” The level of his son’s distress was that of one whose friend has been injured or terribly wronged. It was curious that he should bond so strongly to one whose voice he had never heard, whose laughter he had never shared. Still, a friend was a friend, whether the friendship was reciprocated or not.

Moving toward the bed, Thranduil swept gently across the space between them and seated himself beside the motionless elleth. She took no more note of his presence than if he’d been a fly, landed on the wall. Royal fingers caressed the young face, and the king established a healing bond, a rapport between their minds. It had been many years since he’d been called on to perform such a task, but as with all his kin, the healing arts had ever come readily to him. 

What he found, however, came less easily, and struck a wound deep inside that the king had thought long healed. Some described grief as a maelstrom, others like an earthquake. Grief was different to every mind, and this mind had been eviscerated by it. It was as though in losing her family, she had also lost everything else. There was no pain, no music, no desperation; only silent acceptance of the failure that could only be hers. 

“The road to healing will be a long one,” Thranduil murmured at last, withdrawing his mind with a sigh. “She will need a friend.” Legolas stirred beside him, but said nothing. “One can be alone by believing oneself to be alone. We need only remind her that she is not.”


	4. Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas finally asks his father about something that's been bothering him for some time.

“Ada?” Legolas sat down beside his father for the evening meal, looking somewhat troubled.

“Yes?” There was little, thought Thranduil, that his son might be troubled by which couldn’t be handled quickly before dinner. Still, the expression on the prince’s face was unsettled, and he wanted nothing more than to ease his son’s mind.

“Why is her hair red?” 

Thranduil checked his son’s face to make sure the question asked hadn’t been some sort of joke. But Legolas’ expression was quite earnest, and that in itself was baffling. “Why wouldn’t her hair be red?” Although, now that he thought about it, it had been many centuries since he’d seen any elf with hair quite that… vibrant. And once she’d reclaimed her health, it had taken on a lustrous, fiery hue. Breathtaking, really. Or would be, if she weren’t so young.

“I’ve seen brown, black and flaxen hair, Elven and otherwise, but… I’ve not seen red hair. I thought maybe…” Legolas hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I thought perhaps she was… one of the _Peredhil_.” A halfblood? That explained some of his hesitance, at least. Thranduil thought his son foolish for thinking so, but couldn’t honestly blame anyone but himself for the prince’s mistake. His education ought to have been more complete.

“I think not. She is, however, very young. In the years to come, her hair may become darker.” This explanation was sufficient, as far as Thranduil was concerned, so he turned his attention to the meal laid before them. Legolas, however, gazed at the tabletop for a long minute or two, clearly still troubled. 

“But Ada… you don’t think it means that she’s special?”

That made him pause. The concept certainly wasn't a new one. There had been folk around for centuries, Ages even, that believed a child that born different was somehow marked. Sometimes for a good purpose, other times for a bad one. Women who were especially beautiful, men who had differently-colored hair, eyes or skin. A stag with a white pelt. A blind wolf. 

But the idea that his son was one of this superstitious lot galled him. There was never just one response to any action, though. Thranduil also felt gratitude, pleased that his son was still young enough that these moments of naivete hadn't yet ceased altogether. 

"I don't think her hair color means she's special. Nor do I think it means she's not. Whether a person is special or not depends on what they do, not how they look." His answer given, Thranduil turned contentedly back to his meal. He didn't see the disbelief in the prince's face, nor the determination. Legolas wasn't convinced.


	5. A Name

"It's just strange. You've been here for so long, and I still don't know your name. I suppose, if I'd been smarter, then I would have asked one of the others." Legolas perched on the edge of the balcony, repairing the fletching on his arrows. It was a job he might have given to someone else, but he enjoyed the feeling of the sturdy feathers under his fingers. Beside him, the red-haired elleth sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, gazing quietly over the treetops. Her body had recovered fully, and with some coaxing, she'd even bathed herself. With her hair plaited back from her face, she seemed ever so much more distant. That was probably just appearances, though.

"I suppose I'll have to come up with something to call you. Saying 'the red-haired girl' will only be effective for so long." Legolas gave her a smile, hoping she might react this time. To his surprise, her gaze was on him. "What? Don't like the idea of a new name?" Delicate eyebrows lowered fractionally over her green eyes. And such green. So bright. So alive.

"Tauriel," she whispered. Legolas nearly fell off the balcony.

"Tauriel? That's your name?" He tried to sound as casual as possible, but there was only so much he could do to seem unbothered when his heart was cartwheeling in his throat. A warrior born and raised, and now he was helping this girl to heal. He could have burst with pride.

The elleth nodded slightly, her gaze still on him.

"Daughter of the forest, huh? Were all your family named like that?"

Another nod, then a pause. "Gathien."

"Gathien? Who's that?"

Green eyes darkened slightly, and her gaze slid away from him. "Sister." 

Oh. He could tell Tauriel was upset now, and searched for a way to change the subject. He hadn't meant to make her think of the family she didn't have anymore. For him, a name like 'forest daughter' seemed redundant, since everyone he knew had been conceived in the forest. Either that or presumptuous, as though she belonged to the forest more than anyone else did. But her sister's name, Gathien, meant daughter of the cavern. Clearly, these nomads had used names as a way to remember where they'd been.

"I don't have any siblings. My mother sailed into the West while I was still very young. I've met some of our fellows from Imladris, though. Have you heard of Arwen, daughter of Elrond? They say she's the most beautiful elf to live in the Third Age. You know, except for Galadriel, but since Lady Galadriel is her grandmother, I'm not sure that's really a fair comparison." She was looking at him again, curiously this time. Legolas smiled and kept talking as he removed a damaged feather and split a new one to take its place. "I don't really get to travel much. Ada thinks it's more important for me to learn the running of our kingdom than names and faces of the Third Age. The human rulers are all but unknown to me, but Men rarely visit these parts."

He had her attention now, at least. When he ran out of things to talk about, he showed her how to replace damaged fletching, and set her to work on his secondary quiver. Tauriel's fingers were quick, and she mastered the art easily. Really, she did make the mundane process of fletching into art, as though there could be only beauty in the work of her hands. 

"Tauriel? How old are you?" Legolas watched for her reaction as her gaze flitted to him. He'd been hesitant to ask the question at first, since their last conversation had taken such a wrong turn. He was too curious not to ask, though. After a thoughtful pause, she answered in a whisper, as before.

"Three and forty." 

A chill raced down his spine and into his stomach. Forty-three? She was easily three centuries his junior, and though he'd known this was likely, the injustice of her circumstances turned his insides to ice. She'd not even come of age, and she was alone.

_ Not anymore, _ he reminded himself firmly.  _ I'll be her friend if it kills me. _

At the time, he hadn't meant it literally. 

Perhaps he ought to have worded his oath a little more carefully, all the same.


End file.
